For months, I’ve tried to make sense of my sudden inability to write about societal collapse. Then, I found out I was pregnant.
I’ve been promising, and failing, since before the 2024 U.S. election to write about the world on fire, and the arsonists fanning the flames. The essay I’d had in mind was called “Don’t Be Fucking Stupid About Dictatorship”, a warning I’d been repeating to anyone who’d listen, that felt increasingly urgent as the months went by. There’s been plenty to write about since: Just this week, the Trump administration sowed global chaos when it kidnapped Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro. Unlike Bush’s invasion of Iraq, his administration didn’t bother with any pretense for regime change beyond dick-swinging dominance and oil. They also don’t even have a concept of a plan beyond further threats to invade Greenland, Cuba, Mexico, and Colombia. Yet still, I couldn’t get myself to write about any of it.
This was unusual. For the last decade, I’ve written extensively about abusive tyrants and their destructive attempts at control. In that time, they’ve only gotten more brazen—enough so that arguments that used to get me accused of tin-pot hysterics have now become common sense for the same people who used to do the accusing. The U.S. is, in fact, a corrupt billionaire-backed authoritarian regime staffed by rapists and racists with imperial delusions, in league with a fanatical Supreme Court and a global network of gangster heads of state. The behemoth that is the climate crisis is real and accelerating, as monstrously strong hurricanes hit the Caribbean, and monsoon flooding across South and Southeast Asia kills thousands and displaces millions. Dehumanization continues to lead to countless atrocities: in immigrant detention camps, on Venezuelan fishing boats, for civilians in Gaza, Sudan, Congo, and Ukraine. Meanwhile, the free press is eroding worldwide, and Elon Musk, world’s richest man, has killed humanitarian aid for the world’s poorest people. Simultaneously, fellow techbro Sam Altman wants us to believe the same chatbots that insist there are two r’s in “strawberry” will solve all of our problems, when so far, they mostly seem to be causing psychosis in users while killing the job market, making bikini pics of children and women without their consent, and stealing people’s water.
In the midst of all this, I’ve tried to make sense of my writer’s block. Perhaps it’s because I have a hard time repeating myself—my ADHD brain is wired to seek out novelty—or because it’s too painful to write about societal paralysis and collapse.
Then, eight months ago, I found out I was pregnant.
Suddenly, I had a much better excuse for my inability to focus on all the shitheads ruining everything. But also, something far more welcome: a new surge of hope, and with it, an urge to write again, this time about something slightly different. As I write this, I’m in my third trimester, anxious and excited for my daughter’s arrival, which feels imminent. While this baby wasn’t planned, she was very much wanted: I’ve known I wanted to have a kid ever since my mom died when I was 24. My mom had always mothered me so well, in a way even my adolescent self recognized, and when she died, I felt untethered. The only clarity I got from that awful time was that I was meant to pass on all the unconditional love she’d given me to a child of my own.
But I also wasn’t sure how or when I’d get there. At the time, I was still stuck in abusive dynamics, and would be for years to come. Like many survivors, I had a lot of grieving and healing to do before I eventually broke the cycle. (As Philip Larkin famously wrote, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad, they may not mean to but they do.”)
Luckily, I’ve been blessed with financial stability, which allowed me to take my time and find my way. But it still took many years of therapy, loving community, and good decisions—freezing my eggs; ending bad relationships, whether familial, romantic, platonic, or work-related; getting blessed by Buddhist monks while cradling a baby-sized wooden penis in a fertility ritual at Chimi Lhakang, the temple of the Divine Madman in Bhutan—to prepare me at forty to become a mom.
It’s a funny fact of modern life to have the old-fashioned way of doing things—meet a wonderful man, fall in love, get pregnant—be the surprise. I had an appointment booked with my fertility doctor and was set to pursue single motherhood with a sperm donor when I met my partner last fall. I joked with my friends, “The minute you light a cigarette, the bus comes.” But we’ve both been grateful for the ride.
I’m also old enough to be immersed in all the doomerism around what until recently was called “geriatric pregnancy”, so I was shocked at how easily we got pregnant. (Thank you, Divine Madman of Bhutan!) It took me eight weeks to even realize what was happening—already too late in many U.S. states to make an informed decision about keeping a pregnancy. I’d chalked up the first trimester exhaustion to depression over rising fascism, and spent the night before my blood test googling “pregnancy or perimenopause?”, genuinely unsure which was to blame for making my boobs so sore. The morning after we got the results, I got an email from my fertility doctor asking how I was doing. I thanked him for checking in, and shared the fortunate news that we wouldn’t be needing his help after all.
I’d been excited but daunted to undertake parenting alone, and it’s been a beautiful gift to go through the process with a partner, especially someone so loving and supportive. Simultaneously, there have been so many aspects of this process that have felt out of our control, and it’s scary to be bringing a little girl into a world of rising temperatures and white supremacy. The Trump regime, and RFK Jr. in particular, has a eugenicist fixation on breeding white women to produce more white babies, while simultaneously showing extreme hostility to pregnant people. Our future pediatrician needed to check we still believe in vaccines, and that we understood that Tylenol and infant formula are safe. Meanwhile, my partner was turned away from getting the recommended COVID vaccine because becoming a new parent does not qualify him under the new, absurd restrictions.
But in the face of this, I’m also confident that our daughter will be well-loved, both by us and the village that supports us, and that we will do what we can to model a better way of life for her in our home and in our community. I hope she always feels that sense of comfort and safety with us, even as the world rages on. And I hope that the strong foundation we’re building together gives her the courage to face the challenges that we know we can’t shield her from. Our daughter hit the jackpot with two parents who cannot wait to meet her and surround her with love—something she’s already repaid by kicking her dad hard in the face when he put his cheek to my belly. (He’s a soccer player, and a true believer that “football is life!“; so you can imagine his delight.)
I got lucky that I could feel her little flutterkicks super early. This summer, at the beginning of my second trimester, I took a long-planned trip to Berlin with friends. I’d debated trying to get into the nightclub Berghain with them, and even got a pleather raver dress that fit my growing bump for the occasion. Baby had already attended Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter tour with me, and stayed up to see Cardi B (also pregnant at the time!) perform at Pride, so I was tickled at the thought of us sober dancing together in a warehouse. But I ate too much schnitzel at dinner and my feet hurt, so I stayed in watching Irish murder mysteries instead; probably the wiser choice. That night, I felt little twitches in my tummy for the first time. I thought maybe I was imagining things—but I’m confident now that she was just already saying hello.
On that same trip, I dragged my friend to the Stasi Museum, converted from their creepy former headquarters. It was easy, and terrifying, to see the parallels to the U.S.: The East German secret police’s growth over time reminded me of ICE and Border Patrol’s expanded reign of terror, both in terms of mission creep and surveillance techniques. Even the recruitment perks mirrored one another, though the Stasi had much higher standards for who they let in the club. Once again, I was confronted with the dichotomy of bringing new life into the world as other lives are being torn apart.
It’s been hard not to think of the Stasi murdering border crossers and street protestors when ICE just executed a mother of three by shooting her in the head through her windshield in broad daylight, her wife sitting next to her and neighbors recording the scene on video. Renee Nicole Good was not the first person Trump’s paramilitary thugs have bragged about inflicting violence on, either. After shooting Marimar Martinez in November, a Border Patrol agent reportedly texted his buddies with the line, “I fired 5 rounds and she had 7 holes. Put that in your book, boys.”
As I’m discovering firsthand, having kids nowadays is apparently a never-ending lesson in this kind of cognitive dissonance. I realize, too, it’s both totally natural and a bit crazy to be excited and hopeful about growing this new little human inside me, considering all the horrors I’ve already listed, and the many others I haven’t. Many people I love and respect are foregoing having children entirely, whether because they simply don’t want them, because they’re too expensive (especially in New York City, where I live), or because ecofascism has robbed them of any hope for the future. My loved ones who do have kids have shared the joys of parenting, but also the struggles, especially during COVID. As their kids grow, they’re facing difficult questions about declining prospects, school shootings, and how adults let the world get this way.
I recognize that the aforementioned financial stability takes care of some, though not all, of these concerns. As for those that remain, I think, in spite of everything, here’s my vote of confidence for perpetuating the species: Humanity can be pretty awful, but also pretty amazing. There’s still so much joy and wonder to be found in this world, something I’ve witnessed from people who continue to live and love under the direst of the circumstances. I don’t agree with people who say that having children is what gives life meaning—my life had meaning and purpose before. But I do think my daughter has already challenged me to remain hopeful on her behalf, and to take action to better myself and my community to create a softer landing for her when she’s here.
She’s kicking me as I write this. I’m congested, my joints hurt, I’ve developed gestational diabetes, and I miss carbs. As excited as I am for her to arrive, I’m also terrified of giving birth, and how much I have to do and learn before then. But I also take solace now in all the good news I can find, because it gives me new hope for the future—for her future. Zohran Mamdani won his mayoral campaign with a promise to bring affordable childcare to New York City. CUNY researchers recently discovered a potential universal antiviral that can defeat multiple families of viruses at once, including Ebola, COVID, and SARS. Chicagoans are telling ICE to fuck off, whether that’s dads in pajamas or the Pope. Chinese and European solar power technology is moving forward in leaps and bounds, with renewable energy overtaking fossil fuels in most parts of the world, even as the U.S. lags behind. The African Union passed a Convention on Ending Violence Against Women and Girls, lapping many parts of the world with its second regional treaty on women’s rights. Trump and Putin won’t live forever, and Stephen Miller, RFK Jr., and Pete Hegseth aren’t immune from prosecution. Bolsonaro and Duterte are in jail. Elon Musk is the loneliest man on Earth.
Yes, it’s an extremely dark time, but that’s not exactly a historical outlier. People have been making babies throughout the worst of them. And nothing motivates me more to build a better future for all of us than this little girl, who, like every child, deserves safety, stability, love, and care, and a world equipped to give it to her.
I can’t wait for her to see it.
